


bruise bloom

by biblicalmate



Series: exit wounds [1]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst, Break Up, Cheating, F/M, Infidelity, but this is news to nobody lbr, no happy endings here, this is literally just angst lmao, tommy is a dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2020-01-05 09:21:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18363131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biblicalmate/pseuds/biblicalmate
Summary: Tommy Shelby is your childhood sweetheart, your touchstone, your fiancé. He’s absolutely the love of your life. It’s just a shame that you’re not his.





	bruise bloom

**Author's Note:**

> in the process of cross-posting my fics from tumblr here, though a little edited, so if you've read them before that might be why!

Polly is the one to tell you, in the end.

The suspicion has been lingering in the back of your mind for weeks. Tommy’s been different since the war; colder and distant and so consumed by ambition that there’s hardly any room for anything else. The loving, freer man you’ve grown up with died in France, and the man who comes back is almost a stranger to you, but he’s still your fiancé. Even as he spends hours in the night working on his plan, on the business, he’s still your Tommy. You still love him when he shows up at home covered in blood and bruises and smelling like death, like victory.

When the nightmares are too much, when the shovels are too close and he pushes you and everyone else away no matter how hard you try to help — you still love him. He’s  _Tommy_. You’ve loved him for as long as you remember. You don’t know how to not be in love with him. You don’t  _want_ to not be in love with him.

But they always say it, don’t they? Love is blind, and it blinds you to what’s happening under your very nose.

Late nights have been the norm since the war; the business doesn’t exactly run on regular hours, you know, and it’s been the same since Tommy stepped up and took control. Most nights you fall asleep to an empty bed, your fiancé either out dealing with problems or bent over paperwork, and you’ve stopped trying to coax him home any earlier. He’s still there in the mornings, after all, still greedy for your mouth and your body before he can start his day, and that’s how things have always been. He stills surprises you, sometimes, comes home a little earlier or with a new trinket for you or tugs you close, falls asleep tangled up in you.

But then he starts staying out even later than normal, and when he comes home he smells like perfume and whiskey, not gunpowder and blood. He starts slipping out of bed so early that when you wake his side is cold to the touch. Trinkets and smiles and touches become sparser and sparser, and you never knew how badly a touch could linger until you find yourself desperately wishing for the press of his hand on your spine, the brush of his mouth on your neck.

He’s slipping through your fingers but you don’t want to see it, don’t want to admit it, so you don’t. You carry on living life as if everything is fine, plaster a smile on your face and act like it doesn’t make you ache when people ask you where Tommy is and you can’t give them an answer.

It’s only when Polly pulls you aside, tells you about the barmaid in the Garrison with pretty blonde hair and pretty green eyes and pretty smooth skin, tells you with her own dark eyes sad and soft and hurting for you. It’s only then that you really feel him escape from the grip you’ve tried to keep on him, only then that the fracture lines on your heart crack apart. You thank Polly for telling you, smile brittle and broken, and slip up the stairs without another word. She doesn’t try to follow.

Tommy comes home late that night, as always. You’ve stayed up to wait for him, hands clutching a glass of whiskey you’ve barely touched since you poured it. You’re curled up in the single armchair he’d dragged into the room years ago at your instance, a candle flickering on the table providing the only light in the room and a bag of clothes packed neatly at your feet. Your engagement ring feels heavy on your finger.

He calls your name once. Tommy’s surprised to see you awake; his voice gives it away for all that you can’t make out his face in the relative darkness. “What are you doing up so late, eh?”

You swirl the drink absently, staring at the dancing flame. “Waiting for you.” Your voice is calm, quiet, for all that a tumult of emotions races through you.

He steps closer, the candle casting harsh shadows along the planes of his face. You can see his frown, now, the tiny furrow of his brows, and you suddenly feel sick to your stomach. You’ve loved Tommy for so long you don’t know how to stop, can’t comprehend a world in which it’s not you and Tommy because you’ve  _always_ been a pair, always been at each other’s side. You’re not sure how to live in a time when things aren’t that way.

“Why’d you do a thing like that for, hmm?” His voice is soft, soothing, but it just makes your heart ache because you know what’s coming, know that this is the last time you’re going to hear him talk to you like this. “You need your sleep, love. I’ve told you not to wait up for me when I’m dealing with business.”

You scoff, shaking your head as you finally knock back the whiskey. “Right, the business,” you say bitterly, anger gripping you as you glare furiously at the man you’ve dedicated your life to. “And when you’re off fucking some barmaid? I’m afraid I didn’t know if I was supposed to wait up for you when that’s the case.”

Shock, hurt and anger flash across his face in rapid succession before he shuts down all expression, blue eyes empty even as his hands clench into fists. You hate it, hate seeing how unfeeling he can make himself. All you want is for Tommy to pull you close and deny it all, swear to you it never happened, that he would never do that to you, but all he does is stare as the candle burns down.

“You’re not going to deny it, then,” you say, tone making the question flat. Tears burn in your eyes and you press your palms against them, determined not to let him see you cry over him.

“Is there any point?” he counters, cool and calm and apathetic.

“Of course there’s a fucking point!” you shout, shooting to your feet. You feel incandescent with rage, hurt and betrayal and shame — shame because how could have been so fucking stupid not to  _see —_ all swirling together until it feels like you’re vibrating with emotion. “Because if it’s not true and you tell me it isn’t true I’ll believe you, Tommy, I’ll fucking believe you and we can go to bed right now and wake up tomorrow like this never happened, alright?”

Your voice shakes and you hate yourself for it, want to hate him for making you feel like this, for doing this, but despite it all you still love him and you hate yourself all the more for it. “But if— if it’s true then I fucking deserve to know. I deserve to hear it from your mouth that you’ve been sleeping with that barmaid from the Garrison behind my back, that you— that you don’t give a fuck about me or this relationship anymore, Tommy, if you don’t love me anymore then  _please—.”_

You stop yourself, crying in earnest now, and you turn away to face the wall so he can’t see the tears streaming down your cheeks. The empty glass in your hands threatens to slip from your rapidly numbing fingers, and you shakily set it down before it smashes. “Just tell me the truth, Tommy,” you plead, exhausted and hopeless. “Please. Don’t you owe me that much after everything?”

The room is silent for a long moment, the only noise the sound of your hastily muffled sobs, and then Tommy’s moving until he’s standing right behind you. He’s so close you can feel the heat radiate from him, can hear the unsteadiness of his breathing, but you can’t make yourself look at his face because you know the resignation you’ll find there will destroy you on the stop.

“Course I still love you, I’m gonna be in love with you every day for the rest of my life,” Tommy breathes, hands coming to settle on your waist. The touch makes you ache because, God, it’s been so long since he’s touched you, and you want nothing more than to melt back into his embrace, to let him coax you to bed and put this all down as a bad nightmare. He’s never been able to lie to you, not like this, not in the quiet of your room when everything and everyone else could be miles away, so you believe him when he tells you he loves you, but it’s not enough to quiet the doubt in your head.

“And the barmaid?” you insist, voice a whisper in the dark.

Tommy pauses, fingers flexing as they dig into your waist, but his hesitation is answer enough. You release an anguished cry, hand flying up to cover your mouth as you tear yourself out of his grip. You’re across the room in seconds, as far away as you can possibly be from him.

“How could you?!” you gasp out, words hitching as they catch in your throat. “How could you fucking do this to me, Tommy? To  _us_?!”

“Love, please,” he entreats, face open and vulnerable in a way you haven’t seen in so long. He reaches for you but you bat his hands aside, shaking your head vehemently. The thought of him touching you, something you’ve longed for for weeks, makes you feel sick to your stomach now. “Please, it was— was a mistake, alright? I felt so distant from everything here, from  _you_ , and she was just— she was just  _there_ when I felt like I didn’t have fucking anything—. _”_

_“—You had me!”_  you cut across him harshly, stepping forward until you’re practically screaming in his face. “You fucking had me, Tommy! I’ve been here every day and every night, trying to be here for you, trying to give you what you needed and you just fucking pushed me away with everyone else, so don’t give me that  _bullshit._ Don’t give me your fucking excuses.” You move away from him again, shaking your head rapidly. “Cos this just boils down to the fact that you decided getting your dick wet was more important than our entire fucking relationship. That’s all it is.”

Your smirk is cruel and bitter is it curls across your tear-stained face, the part of you that’s so hurt right now you can barely stand taking pleasure in the distraught expression on Tommy’s face. You want him to hurt like you’re hurting, want to break his heart just like he’s crushed yours between his careless hands.

“I hope she was a good fuck, Tommy, I really do.” You nod deliberately, a brittle laugh escaping you as you swipe at the tears on your face. “I hope it was worth it. I hope the two of you get everything you fucking deserve.” You pull the engagement ring from your finger, feeling strangely naked without it. You’ve worn this ring for years, since before Tommy went off to fight a war, and parting with it now feels a little unreal.

“Hey, please. Let’s not do anything drastic, eh? I can fix this. Let me fix this.” His eyes are bright and shining with tears that he refuses to shed, and the pleasure at seeing him hurting is gone, now. It just leaves you hollow with a mouth that tastes like ash.

“You can’t fix everything, Tommy,” you reply, tears finally stopping as your emotions start to numb at the reality you’re facing. You just feel exhausted, wrung out and empty of anything else. You set the ring down on the desk. “You can’t fix this.” Your fingers linger on the metal band, warm from your skin, for a long moment, but eventually you step away, leaving the ring behind. You pick up your bag silently, watching Tommy as he practically collapses onto the bed, head in his hands.

“I’d have given you everything, you know.” Your voice is quiet, lilting almost as you head for the door. “I’d have given you the entire fucking world if you’d asked for it.” Another sharp laugh slips from your mouth. “But I guess that’s on me, huh? Shoulda known that whatever I could give you wouldn’t be enough, not anymore.”

Tommy says your name, once, like it’s a prayer, like it’s the only thing he  _can_ say. He doesn’t ask you to stay, doesn’t beg or plead or bargain, just says your name and stares at the side of your face, and for all that it makes you falter it’s just not enough. You’ve let this man break your heart a little more with every inch of distance he’s put between you, have cut yourself on the pieces as you tried to stitch it together again and again, and for what? It all just seems so pointless, now, and you’re just so  _tired,_ and he doesn’t even have it in him to ask you to stay.

You open the door, shaking your head again. “Goodbye, Tommy.” You’re gone before he can reply, leaving only a thunderous silence behind.

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on tumblr @ biblicalmate :)


End file.
